The body, like a building
The body, like a building, keeps the passage of time.
Unlike a building, the body moves warmly,
storing common knowledge in feathered fingers
and sore teeth, like grey clay pulled from the earth,
turning salmon colored and firm from the weight.
Unlike a building, the body stays out of the winter sky,
tethered to coffered ceilings. The body drives downstate,
each time surprised by its own guilelessness
looking for connection in plain field grass, stalky and rough,
finding only a solitary arcade. The body arranges itself on a grid.
